


Safety First

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gun Kink, Implied/Referenced Incest, Other, Twink Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: For the prompt: Any scenario where Dean is made to fellate John's gun and loves it.





	

Sam got home while Dean was in the shower. He was early-  _ hours _ earlier than Dean had expected him. The younger Winchester had picked up the habit of staying late after school, begging asylum from any extracurricular activity that would let him stay. 

Dean listened for voices, rinsing the soap out of his hair and trying to come up with a way to make yesterday’s leftover pizza stretch to cover both of them. 

It got quiet out in the main room, and Dean shut off the water, rubbing his hair dry and wrapping the towel around his waist.  

“Too nerdy for the thespians, Sammy?” he asked, pushing the door open and grinning at his brother. 

Sam wasn’t there. Instead, John sat in the room’s sole chair, his arm propped on the miniscule side table. 

“Dad!” Dean exclaimed, instantly standing a little taller. “When did you get back into town?” 

John Winchester said nothing. Instead, he slid his arm forward, letting Dean see what was resting under his hand. Dean’s stomach froze when he recognized the silver barrel of his own gun. 

“Know where I found this?” 

Dean nodded. 

“On the table, sir.” 

“Where your  _ brother _ could get to it.” 

“It’s unloaded, and anyway, Sammy’s sixteen, he knows how to handle-” 

“That’s your excuse? ‘It’s unloaded?’” 

Dean said nothing. He knew his father’s rule- a firearm’s only unloaded if you unloaded it yourself. And even then, only until you let it out of your sight. 

“It  _ is, _ though,” he insisted weakly, not really holding out any hope. His father’s belt buckle seemed to gleam at him, and Dean tried not to look scared. 

“Prove it,” John replied, and Dean blinked. Dumbly, he reached for the handgun, but John only tightened his grip. 

“Not like that.”

Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion, and John gestured to the carpet just in front of him. 

“There. On your knees.”

Dean was confused, but he still hurried to comply, shoving his towel tighter around his waist to keep it from falling. He knelt, looking up at his father. 

John picked up the gun, then, cocking it and rounding on Dean. Dean stared up the barrel, his throat suddenly tight. 

“Dad?” 

“Open your mouth,” John ordered, and Dean swallowed hard, his eyes flicking between John’s face and the dark eye of the gun.

It was unloaded. He  _ knew _ it was. He’d just cleaned it, the thing had been literally disassembled on the table. And there’s no way John would do this without triple-checking, right? 

“ _ Now, _ ” John insisted, and Dean shivered at the authority in that voice. He licked his lips and let his jaw drop, just a little. 

“Put it in your mouth,” John said, and his voice had gotten a little low. A little scratchy. Dean inhaled slowly, looking at the silver barrel. His stomach twisted as he imagined it in his mouth, the power that his father would hold over him…

He opened wider, leaning forward to take the end of the barrel into his mouth. The muzzle glanced against his tongue, smooth and cold. 

“Still sure, kid?” 

Dean looked up through his eyelashes, as defiant as he dared, and leaned forward further. The muzzle slid deeper, toward his throat. He didn’t stop until he felt his lower lip brushing the trigger guard. The frame was flush with his tongue, tasting of oil and the cleaner he’d used. 

John stared at him, his expression unreadable. Dean closed his eyes, focusing on the cold metal between his lips. He worked his tongue along the underside, his throat tensing as he tried to take it deeper. 

There was a weird, fluttering feeling in his stomach, and Dean realized he was getting hard. 

He should’ve stopped there, but he couldn’t. It felt too good.

‘ _ Are you sure’ _ John had asked, and Dean  _ was _ sure, sure enough to be  _ arrogant _ about it. 

Dean tongued the frame again, lips working the slide, his cock filling at the realization that he was quite literally  _ mouthing off _ to a man holding a gun on him. The bizarre mix of powerful and powerless sent chills down his spine.

He looked up at his father again, the muzzle of the gun buried against his soft palate, his lower lip pressed to the guard. He could feel John’s finger there, steady against the trigger. 

He could pull it, Dean knew, but there would be nothing but a hollow click. The gun was empty. Dean had called his bluff and even kneeling there half-naked, he knew he’d won. 

John licked his lips, staring downward, meeting Dean’s eyes and for a moment, something passed there. Some understanding that would never get the chance to calcify because at that moment, the keycard dropped into the door lock. 

John snapped out of it, pulling the gun back and dropping it onto the table. Dean didn’t even blink, just retrieved his duffel and began rummaging for clean clothes. 

Sam stepped through the door a half-second later, dropping his bookbag on the floor. 

“Dad! When did you get back?” 

John didn’t answer him, just continued silently watching Dean as he dressed. 

“Doesn’t matter when,” Dean answered brusquely. “He’s here now, which means pack up; we’re moving.” 

Sam made the face that meant he was about to start bitching about next week’s poetry reading or ice skating recital or whatever bullshit school project he’d devoted himself to now. 

John saw it too and settled back, already tired from the argument they were about to have again. For once, Dean didn’t dread his default role as intermediary. 

He’d won once today. He might get lucky again. 

“Mind passing that over?” he asked, gesturing to the gun on the table. John stared at him a second, but complied. Dean tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. 

He didn’t check the chamber. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/118435.html?thread=42977187#t42977187


End file.
